


so says the captain

by hotmesslewis



Category: Lewis and Clark
Genre: I have no idea how this works tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:51:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: like, not to be dismissive of it or anything, but meriwether lewis is a sadboy





	so says the captain

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song "the captain" by guster

No one could know about these moments. These moments when he was not of himself. (These moments when he was more of himself than he would ever let anyone know.)

Not even William Clark. Not even his best friend, the only other soul he felt that he could trust in the world, the man whom he loved more than anyone. Not even he could know how much Meriwether Lewis doubted himself.

Mornings like this, after sleepless nights, when he was full of wonder at his own depths of self-pity and despair, he rose early, with the faintest turning of the sky as it faded from deepest navy to a softer shade of blue like ink on parchment. Lewis would slip quietly from the tent he shared with Clark, and make his way to the river, sitting beside it on the damp earth with his shaving kit in hand, watching for the sun to crest the horizon.

When the sky was light enough, he set about the business of shaving his last couple of days’ growth of beard. His soap and knife, and a quiet spot where the river didn’t move too swiftly for a mirror.

Lewis took a moment to stare at his reflection in the dim morning light, praying selfishly and in vain that what he saw in the river was a distortion of who he really was. There were so many aspects of his face he was so well accustomed to—his small and lovely mouth, the nose he inherited from his mother’s family that he could never quite be happy with, his strangely colored eyes, more of a pure gray, like stone, than blue or green, even the unruly thatch of hair, itself turning a stony gray before his thirtieth year. But of late there was a storm brewing, constantly, unendingly, behind that face that he’d seen in every looking glass for all of his life. And the storm was always, always getting worse. These days he had to intentionally keep the corners of his mouth tight in a smile to keep a growing, gathering sense of fear at bay. These days he saw something shifting behind his eyes that he almost—not quite—did he recognize it? He had studied the weather, and that look behind his eyes almost reminded him of the swirling of clouds in a storm. He had studied the water, and wondered if the motion he thought he saw wasn’t just the way the river curved and rolled over the stones. He studied himself, and he loathed it all.

It really was a shame, he thought, watching his face in the water, that he wore all of his fears, his insecurities so plainly on his face. Hardly any wonder his men had such little respect for him, when he had even less respect for himself (a selfish lie).

But change the thought, change the thought, quick, don’t give in to this despair, no. He could not allow that to be the truth of things. He could not allow this to be who he was. Because there was something else that he was, unequivocally and unquestionably: The Captain. The man in charge. The man who must know what he was doing, or not only he, but the entire party of his men would find themselves lost and damned in the wilderness. He could and would be damned, for all he cared, but there were other souls besides his own in his care. So, do what he must to get through the day—change the thought. Change the shape of the thing to change the thing itself. Change the look of it to change what it was.

Lewis finished the weak layer of lather that his hard soap would give him and took the knife to his throat.

With long, careful strokes, he shaved away his growth of beard, and with it the night’s doubts and the dawn’s misgivings, like a second layer of skin.

“Meriwether?” He heard the voice of Clark behind him, and turned to see the man rubbing the morning from his eyes, the shaggy black dog sleepily wagging his tail beside him.

“Just a minute, Billy. Give me just another moment to get myself put together.”


End file.
